


Violets and Nightingales

by actuallyfeanor



Series: Ships That Never Sailed [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Crack Pairing, Crack Treated Seriously, Disregards Laws and Customs Among the Eldar, Fade to Black, Guilt, How did it end up like this?, Implied Sexual Content, LACE is for cowards who don't write crackships, M/M, References to kinslayings, Sea-longing, accidental enemies to lovers, and then back to enemies again, it started out with a joke, to boldly ship what has seldom been shipped before
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2020-02-10 09:28:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18657655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/actuallyfeanor/pseuds/actuallyfeanor
Summary: Maedhros, haunted by his losses in the Nirnaeth, strays too close to Doriath and has a strange encounter there.





	Violets and Nightingales

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pollys_hymnia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pollys_hymnia/gifts).



> [Pollys_hymnia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pollys_hymnia) and I had a terrible idea that resulted in [this story](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17843681). Here, finally, devoid of Egalmoth's purple prose, is the real story of what happened that night in Doriath.

Maedhros was restless. Ever since Menegroth his mind had been troubled, even more so since he and his remaining brothers had attacked the Havens of Sirion too. He got up and walked out of the tent. Some fresh air would do him good, clear his mind. They sun was hanging low over the horizon. Down by the sea, waves crashed violently against the cliffs, but it was nothing compared to the turmoil inside him. He walked as if in a daze down to the beach. On the sandy shore, his knees buckled under him as his mind was flooded with images. Moonlight filtering through the foliage. The smell of violets and wet grass. Deep purple shadows behind a silver waterfall, and nightingale song. The memories brought him back to the time after the Nirnaeth, when the days flowed by in an endless stream, until he lost all track of them; when his lonely wanderings and grief brought him far away from home.

He had been walking for days, the relentless sun beating down on his head, when he came to the forest outskirts. Stepping in between the trees, he found the air heavy with the scent of flowers. There was something else too; an intangible feeling of enchantment, as light as cobweb resting on his shoulders. The Girdle of Melian. He knew he should not be there, but his dry throat was screaming for water, and he could do with some shelter from the sun. Reaching a decision, he tied a piece of cloth over his head to cover the hair. Short-shorn and glimmering like copper, it was too easily recognisable, and it would not do for Maedhros Fëanorion to be recognised in these lands. There was little he could do about the missing hand, but then he was not the only one to have lost a limb in the war. Nor was a limb the only thing he had lost.

 _Fingon, how could I fail you like that?_ They had been betrayed, true, but he still blamed himself. He should have seen the treachery earlier, should have guessed that Morgoth would try one of his old tricks. Few Noldor knew the Enemy as well as Maedhros did, and though his time as a prisoner was not something he wanted to remember, certain observations made during that time had proven useful in the later battles. Yet it all had come to nothing. The greatest alliance ever seen had dashed itself to pieces against the dark might of Angband.

Not daring to walk too far into the enchanted woods, he walked along the forest outskirts until he came upon a stream where he filled his waterskin. Taking only a small sip in case it should happen to be poisoned, he sat down under a great oak to rest for a bit. He whistled to himself, one of Maglor's compositions, to chase away the thoughts of Fingon's broken body trampled in the mud on the battlefield. The tune was complex enough to keep his mind occupied, but it sounded woefully incomplete without a harp to play the complex harmonies that turned it into a true masterpiece, and soon his mind returned to the emptiness and sorrow he felt. Absentmindedly he started humming a simple tune, one that his father had taught him all those years ago in Tirion. They had been walking together in the woodlands, and Fëanor had made Maedhros sing the song while he added a soaring counterpoint melody.

Still humming the song, Maedhros thought he must have drifted off and dreamt of a happier time, for a voice was there, singing that very same counterpoint melody. A strange elf stepped out from between the trees. He was tall, almost as tall as Maedhros, and his silvery hair was glittering in the afternoon sun.

"Greetings, traveller. Who are you, and what brings you to these lands in such troubled times?"

"Only a soldier, weary of war and trying to forget its horrors. I was merely stopping here for a quick rest and some water."

"Then do not let me interrupt you. Just be warned, the dwellers in the forest yonder, my people, do not always look kindly upon those who trespass in the realm of Doriath."

"I will bear that in mind. But stay a while if you wish; I have found that solitude is no great aid in forgetting the past."

Gracefully, the stranger sat down on a tree root next to Maedhros. Neither asked for the other's name, and Maedhros was secretly relieved. In silence they watched the sun bathe the landscape in a soft orange glow and listened to the musical trickle of the stream. The strange elf sighed.

"Too long has it been since I walked these lands under the open sky. Oftentimes it seems to me that the forest is a gilded cage. I long for the sea. You know, I have never seen the sun set upon the waves. The last time I beheld the sea, the two trees of Valinor were still in bloom and the sun had not yet been born. But you are mayhaps too young to remember such a time? No, I can see it in your eyes. The light of the Blessed Realm is still in them, however faint." A look of horror passed over his face. "But then you are one of _them_ , are you not?"

Maedhros gave a start at the other's perceptiveness, and yet wondered greatly at his words. He decided to stick to the truth for now, or as near to it as he dared go. "Indeed," he said. "I well remember the light of Laurelin and Telperion, from days long gone. I followed my lord into exile, for I would not be parted from him; though I bitterly regret the path he led me down."

The stranger still looked suspicious. "And under whose banner did you march?"

"Fingolfin's." Technically true; there had been a time when he had joined his own forces to those of the the High King. "And Fingon, his son, after him." Also true. He would have followed Fingon to the very gates of Angband, High King or not.

"I myself have little love for such folk and their followers. But I see that you speak the truth in this matter, and your honesty does you credit, as does your loyalty, though misplaced. You have suffered great hurts, both in body and in spirit."

"That I have. Friends have been lost on the battlefield, the lord I served fell in one of the first battles, and I am left behind. I fear that no healing can be found, so I try to forget as best I can."

The stranger looked upon him with pity in his grey-violet eyes. "I know something of the sorrow you feel. Not long ago I lost someone dear to me, and the sadness weighs heavily upon my heart."

There was a heavy silence, both of them wrapped up in their own, separate griefs. The sun was getting closer to the horizon, and Maedhros remembered what the stranger had said. He could not imagine it; to never have beheld the glory of a sunset upon the western sea.

"Once, I was standing on the beach, watching the sun set beyond the horizon. The whole sky was drenched in violet and red, and the waves carried with them glints of orange, like sparks from a bonfire. The soft sound of the waves and the seagulls crying almost tore my heart to pieces; it felt like the first and the last sunset I would ever see, and I was overcome with melancholy, a longing for a place whose name I half-remembered. My mind was in turmoil, yet the soft orange of the sunset soothed it all away."

When he finished speaking, there were tears running down the stranger's face.

"Please. Tell me more." His voice was hoarse with emotion. And so Maedhros told him of crabs hiding in the sand, of albatrosses gliding on the thermals, of stormy nights and sunny days, and of the northern shores of Lammoth where seals played upon frozen cliffs under the cold light of the stars. He spoke until the sun had set and night had crept into the forest.

Almost imperceptibly the stranger had moved closer to Maedhros, and as he stopped talking, he found that the other had taken his hand. The stranger turned his face towards him, violet eyes glittering like deep forest pools, the kind you could drown in if you weren't careful.

"Seldom have I met someone who has such a gift for making words come alive. Would I ask too much if I told you I wished to spend this night with you? You are of course free to refuse, I will hold no grudge against you."

Maybe it was the sweet, intoxicating scent of violets that did it, or maybe it was a yearning for touch, the warmth of another's bare skin against his own. At any rate, Maedhros found he had no inclination whatsoever to refuse the stranger's offer. There was a familiarity about him, something that reminded him of home, when everything else was in turmoil.

"I would be honoured to accept your offer," he said.

Afterwards they lay together, watching the stars through the foliage and talking. The stranger had a rich knowledge of poetry and music in addition to a wry sense of humour, and Maedhros found himself quite enjoying the other's company. _I could stay here_ , he thought. _I could remain in this forest and forget about everything. The war, the Oath, the Silmarils_. And yet, how could he? For in the very heart of Doriath, protected by Melian's magic and Thingol's forces, lay one of the very gems he sought. He suddenly felt the danger of the position he had put himself in, and had a strong urge to be somewhere else, to get on his feet and put as many miles as possible between himself and the temptation that lay in the forest realm. And yet something made him stay a while longer. The stranger's lips against his own, their bodies intertwined, every touch that brought back painful memories and at the same time soothed them away.

"What are you thinking of?" The stranger's voice interrupted his train of thought.

"I need to be on my way soon. My brothers will wonder what has happened to me if I tarry too long."

"I see. Know that you are always welcome here in Doriath, should you ever pass this way again. My wife will not mind. She is not like us, and what love is between me and her is so strange, so different from anything you can imagine, but it is not of the physical kind, not after our daughter was born."

Maedhros felt as though someone had poured ice in his veins. Thingol. It had to be, from the way he spoke of his wife. He had to get away from there immediately.

"Thank you for your kindness. I must take my leave of you now."

Thingol looked almost hurt. 

"Before you go, may I have a small token to remember you by? A lock of hair, perhaps?" Before Maedhros could say anything, Thingol had taken out his dagger, cut off a lock of his hair and tied it together with a piece of string. Only then did Maedhros notice that his head was no longer covered. He looked frantically around for the piece of cloth with must have fallen off during the night, but couldn't find it. Light was creeping into the forest, soon it would be too late. Maedhros reached for his boot, hoping to grab the small knife he had hidden there, but before he could move, Thingol's dagger was at his throat.

"Maedhros son of Fëanor, I presume?" The forest shook with Thingol's rage, and Maedhros realised that the magic that enveloped Doriath was as much his as Melian's. "You thought you could sneak into my realm and steal my hard-won Silmaril? I paid for that with the life of my own daughter!"

"I meant no harm …" Maedhros trailed off as the point of the dagger pressed into his skin.

"I don't care about your excuses, kinslayer. You deserve death for daring to enter my realm." 

"Then kill me." 

Thingol raised his dagger and Maedhros closed his eyes, expecting it to pierce his throat any second. To his surprise, he felt Thingol grab hold of him instead and pull him to his feet.

"Get your belongings."

Not daring to disobey, Maedhros quickly filled his waterskin, picked up his cloak and went to the edge of the forest. Thingol followed him, dagger at the ready.

"As king of these lands, I command you to leave Doriath and never return. Be grateful that you are still alive."

Maedhros nodded in assent and started walking, but something made him turn back, one last time. 

"I refuse to regret what has happened between us here. It gave me a glimpse of what could have been, had we met at a different time, in different circumstances, and I will treasure the memories for as long as I shall walk this earth, even knowing how it ended. This I promise you, Elwë Singollo." The Quenya escaped his lips before he had time to think. A last act of defiance, perhaps. Thingol's eyes narrowed in anger, and he looked like he was ready to rip Maedhros' throat out, like a feral beast of the forest. Instead the Elvenking turned around abruptly and stalked off into the woods, vanishing swiftly into the shadowy realm where he belonged.

Menegroth, years later: The box they found was simple and unadorned, except for a faint engraving on the lid. Wiping the dirt from the lid, they discovered the star sigil of the House of Fëanor, and so they decided to bring the mystery box to Maedhros. Hands trembling with apprehension, he opened it. The lock of copper hair, tied together with a white ribbon, was unmistakable. So were the coins bearing his own likeness, minted in Himring before the fortress fell. Maedhros turned away so his men wouldn't see the tears clouding his eyes. He kept the box and its contents, hiding it even from Maglor.

"I kept my promise," Maedhros whispered to the wind and the waves. "Though I have failed at everything else, I kept you safe in my memory." But what was such a promise worth in the end? He saw his own sword slash Dior's throat, the proud halls of Menegroth stained with blood, Elwing jumping to her death rather than surrendering the Silmaril, her brothers lost in the woods. And yet Elwing's sons still lived. Elrond and Elros, the last heirs of Thingol, now sleeping in a tent in the Fëanorian camp. Sometimes promises aren't kept the way you expect. Motionless, Maedhros stared off into the distance, as if searching for a ship he knew would never arrive. He stayed there until the sun had set, and then he went back to his tent, slept, and dreamed of violets and nightingales.


End file.
